She Is Not Luna

She is not Artemis he is not

Apollo. They wrestle anyway,

earth magnets looking up.

He says, It’s six o’clock it’s dark

 

I don’t like it.

Go to a pole, she says.

The southern hemisphere — that one.

You want sun? It’s there.

 

His mind’s hemisphere falls short,

starts its whine about cold and no

farmers markets. Happy with the darker

walk toward solstice, she limps it now,

begins again to light the tableau.